Gasping to Live

 My last post was March 24, 2021.  

I quit breathing on March 28, 2021. 

Your first thought after reading that sentence is probably incorrect. Let me explain. 

As we know, one can only hold his/her breath for so long until one of two things have to happen: You take a breath or you die. 

It's amazing how humans can have a will to live even when they don't have a will to live.  In other words, your entire physiology is programmed to live at all costs.  The autonomic mind and body work sybiotically work to survive even when the thinking mind is ready to give up.  

That's basically what it's been like from March 28 to now.  My mind and body have been on autopilot to survive; the rest of me has been numb. Mentally, I have tried hard to stand in one place.  To venture out of the safe space would mean stepping off a cliff into something I just can't deal with.  

What happened?  

Well, here is the kick in the pants.  I can't tell you.  It's not my story to tell.  And for the last 51 years of my life, it has never been my story to tell.  The antagonists have changed over time, but the story is the same, more or less.  

As usual, someone else's shit has splattered all over me, and while I have choices as to how to deal with it, I don't have choices as well.  

It's complicated.

Suffice it to say, I can function, as needed, on a daily basis. I can smile, charm, care, encourage, complete my job with proficiency, and for all practical purposes, carry on like my life is stable, predictable, and enjoyable.  

But it's not.  

This week, in particular, has been rough.  I have been itchy within my own skin (literally and figuratively).  I am agitated, irritated, angry, just generally out of sorts, and I don't know what has caused it.

I know that I have not been accountable.  I have set the same weekly goal for myself for a month to six weeks, and have not followed through on it.  Every time that I planned to do it, there was always an interruption.  And I don't have an accountability partner, so the only one who can make me do anything is myself.  

That's another thing:  As usual, I am annoyed by the fact that those "in the know" have not been checking in on me.  I mean, seriously.  This is a big deal, and seriously, how many times have I been there for you??

But again, I'm reminded of my newly-discovered status.  I am co-dependent.  Like unbelievably co-dependent.  The discovery of which has rocked my world.  Finally, I have an explanation for my mindset and actions.  I do for others, get mad when they aren't grateful, and get sour when they don't reciprocate, even though I would rather crawl into a hole to have them even try.  

It's complicated.  

Co-dependency has swallowed up the last 51 years of my life.  It was a pattern I learned as a kid - a response to the MENTAL ILLNESS who absorbed most of the time and energy of my family.  "Don't poke the bear" has been my unspoken mantra all my life.  Just do whatever needs to be done.  Just smoothen the way for the irrational unpredictability of the MENTAL ILLNESS to avoid the shit splatter.  But guess what?  In spite of best efforts, the shit splatter always happened anyway.  Go figure.  

So now, here I am, at age 51, trying to figure out who the eff I am, what the eff I want, and how to un-learn all these self-destructive, self-centered, self-absorbed thoughts and actions to find the life that God wants me to have.  

This is extremely difficult.  

For the entire depth and breadth of my life, I have deferred to everyone else, always.  What do I want to do?  Whatever you want to do.  What do I want to eat?  Whatever you want to eat.  I have no preference. Where do I want to go?  Wherever you want to go.

I don't have a clue what I actually like, prefer, or want.  No idea.  I don't even know where to start.  It's very overwhelming.  

Maybe that's why I am so out of sorts this week.

Actually, I think it's partially because I see other people thriving.  Like moving ahead in life and going after their dreams, while I sit and spin, trying to figure out what my actual dreams are.  Good for them, but it effing sucks for me.  I feel kind of like one of those chocolate Easter bunnies.  It looks good on the outside, but once you break off a piece, you realize that it's hollow inside.  That's me.  The hollow Easter bunny.  I don't know who I am.  

I suppose I should be somewhat grateful for the events of March 28, and I guess there is a part of me that is.  Without it, who knows when I would have learned all this about myself?  So now, I am in the process of taking short, hiccupy breaths. It's like gasping on the re-surface after being under water for too long.  That first breath isn't a big one, but it's enough for the moment, but hey, it's still a breath.  It's an outward sign that I might be willing to go on.  

I don't know what comes next.  I do know that I have to do something.  Just one effing thing.  Once I do one thing, it will make it easier to do the next thing. . .and the next. . .and the next.  

Breath in.  Breath out.  Breath in.  Breath out.